MY BIG FAT ASS
and other insulting newsflashes ...
[a.k.a. my own weekend update]
Benjamin Kissell
Ooh, all the latest shitstorms fit to ...
well, not to print, but definitely to kvetch about; right?
Every year I get to run a harrowing gauntlet of Family Get Together Hurdles that together would make any decathalon-minded Olympian blanch in fear and possibly ask to 'sit this one out'. Why? Well, within a 10-day stretch is: Mother's Day, my Mum's birthday, my Da's birthday and my Uncle's birthday (which coincides with Cher's, so it's a double-whammy holiday). As usual, this year to save time/sanity/possible shouting matches my family combined Mother's Day and my Mum's birthday - double the presents and all the delicious cake we can eat #hashtagwinning!
So what makes this so harrowing? The forced gift-giving and expenses? The over-eating? The deliciously dangerously fattening cake? Well, each of these is a danger in and of themselves. However, the worst offender is the actual getting together of my family.
You see, my family is comprised of dangerous folk. No, not ex-CIA Spooks (that we'll own up to, anyways). No, we're a family of sharp-tongued warriors clad in sarcasm, armed with wit and veiled commentary.
As a veteran combatant in the Passive-Aggressive War of Attrition, known to the outside world as "family bonding time", you would think that I've seen/heard it all. One would assume that I'd become inured to the politely couched slings and arrows of misfortune tossed off as "sentimentality" and "concern for your welfare". But, you would be wrong. Whether from my WASP grandmother, my "too blunt for words" grandfather or the constant high/low snark that comes from all three sides (my uncle, my Mum and myself) there has always been an almost- Cold War level of hostility below our love; something I'm told isn't in the standard nuclear family.
Huh.
I know; this doesn't sound too warm and friendly or even terribly Norman Rockwell of us, but that's just how my family is. We love each other - we do! Sadly, we don't always relate too terribly well with one another. We exist in a state of detente that makes the gloom of an 80's Sting song sound positively upbeat. Despite being a family with large vocabularies, extensive literary collections and various highly respected degrees [and JEOPARDY! championships] our communcation skills towards others within our family unit are ...
Stunted.
Stilted.
Possibly more arrested than a combination of Sheen, Lohan, Britney, Bynes and Bieber.
Which is not to say that we don't give it the ole college try - we get together for family birthdays, holidays and, occasionally, just to see one another. We'll meet up for dinner at my grandparents' home [think Yuppie Colonial cross-bred with repressed repression] and often follow the post-dinner conversation with a rousing game of Scrabble before scattering to the four corners of town to live our separate lives. (My family quite thoroughly refuses to play any iteration of Trivial Pursuit when my Mum is around; perhaps something about the whole JEOPARDY! win sets them to nervous?)
With the closeness I've often publicized with my Mum, you'd think that at least our Dynamic Duo-ness would help offset this whole Rockwell-from-Hell vibe.
Again, you would be wrong.
............................................
Eerily, this looks a lot like my grandparents' living room ...
complete with passive aggressive undertones
to the carpet, panelling and brickwork.
The usual and most repeated offender on this watch list of Passive Aggressive Heavy Weights is my loving Grandother, Nana. [Author's caveat: please understand, before I go any further, that I love my Nana very very much and will kick you in the jimmies if you say one mean word about her ... I'm just aware of how strong the Passive Aggressive Force is with this one.] Best described as a cross between Maggie Griffin and Blythe Danner, Nana is known to break out with such colorful commentary like "Benjamin, when we were growing up the Jews in-town were a VERY clean people" (upon seeing my Star of David necklace when I first converted); or "Lori, I just NEVER know what size shirt to buy you" pause and wait for it "here let me cut that cake for you - you need a bigger slice" and the ever-classic "I always love when you visit, Benjamin; it happens so infrequently".
Ouch. Like a knife-wound to the gut, that is.
So, with that sort of build-up it shouldn't come as a surprise that this weekend's festivities of family togetherness brought out a comment from my Nana that made my head swim in confusion. During the unwrapping of presents and camera-phone flashes my grandmother turned to my mother and, with nary a trace of irony/condescension/passive aggressive WASP to her voice, said "Benjamin's face is filling out nicely".
"Filling out"?
"Filling out" what the hell does that mean? Does it mean my face is a teenaged girl just developing a bra-worthy chest? Should I be looking for teenage-onset acne and worry about my voice changing? My face is suddenly a bike tire getting a quick fix at the Wawa free air pump? I can't help but read into this based on the decades of WASP commentary that have been the basis of our family's communication.
What does she mean by this?
True, my cheeks are no longer the rakish cheek-bones that could cut glass they were in my youth [*le sigh*], but I didn't think I had suddenly developed Chip'n'Dale Chipmunk cheeks in the last 24 hours. Yes, I've put on a few lbs to my ass, but wouldn't I have noticed if that fat had suddenly flown up to my face?
Yet, when my grandmother says this in an offhand comment I begin to obsess about it.
I am aware that between my exhaustive work schedule, my extreme and personal dislike for exercise and love of delivery food my ass has ballooned a tad. My formerly trim 31-32" waist is a tad wider these days [a fair bit more if that asshat scale at the doctor's office is to be believed]. Of this I am painfully aware every time I fasten my dress pants for work and feel their waistband cut a little into the area-formerly-kn0wn-as-my-middrif. This doesn't normally discourage me as I am a grown adult man in his 30's who isn't actually unfit, just not super-skinny.
Of course I pick at this and focus on it so badly that for the next two days it's all I can do not to text her all Shannen Doherty-like in Extreme Caps Lock with grade school-isms "OH YEAH!? THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK!" It isn't until I'm home, fuming, sitting next to my wonderfully patient boyfriend fiance Saturday night that it occurs to me [okay, he points it out, satisfied?]: Nana actually meant exactly what she said - my face is filling out nicely. Not rounding out in a late-80's/early-90's Drew Barrymore way, but in a healthy adult way.
Huh. Whodathunkit?
I guess I just got my own not-so- little newsflash this weekend: even the Cold War had to end - perhaps my maturing body [*heh* try NOT making that sound like some lame after-school PSA] and waistline aren't the only things growing around here?
Recent Comments